Sedated
by mangled-form
Summary: Sherlock sedates John


**Author's note: **I'm a new fanfic writer, any and all comments are welcome :)

Sherlock sat on the edge of the couch, staring down at his watch. The second hand was incredibly slow. Twenty minutes. He jumped up paced for a moment, considered washing the mug on the counter, dismissed the idea immediately. He wouldn't know, have any reason to be on the lookout. John wasn't a terribly observant man. Perhaps better than the masses, but not by much. But John was one thing that no one else was. He could tolerate Sherlock. Maybe even more than that, a partner of sorts.

He couldn't find out.

Sherlock stepped up to the door, opened it carefully. Stood there, in the doorway, still and watching. John's chest rose and fell softly, his shirt only half-buttoned, had fallen asleep halfway through the process, luckily had been sitting on the bed, so was awkwardly lying on the bed on top of his sheets.

"John." Sherlock waited, but there was not even a twitch from the sleeping figure. He quickly approached the bed, placed a finger on the pulse at his throat. 52 was the pulse at sleeping. John's pulse was 45. Sherlock breathed a quick sigh. There was no need to worry.

He adjusted John so that he was lying flat on the bed, no need to have him wake in the morning with a kink in his neck. He leaned over John, just memorizing the relaxed sleeping face. The careworn lines that spoke of sun, sleepless nights in Afghanistan. Stress and anxiety. Delicately, he reached out and touched the side of John's face, his temple. Quickly he made up his mind and swung over John, straddling him, while being careful not to touch. Then he leaned in, tracing a finger along a cheek, his nose, admiring the texture, the slight roughness along his jawline.

Mine. The thought came unbidden, but he checked himself quickly. This was only an experiment, nothing more. Why would John be his? If John was his, he wouldn't be able to leave, escape, would stay with him forever. That could never happen. Everyone left sooner or later. John simply was lasting longer than most. John was the only one Sherlock knew he could stand for great lengths of time. Sherlock traced further down to John's neck, over the bump of his adam's apple, to where the slight indent, soft at the base of his neck was. Most people were annoying. Almost from the moment someone would start talking to him, he'd be bored, irritated. He could stand it for short periods of time, but not long.

He pressed down a little harder on John's neck. A little harder. John could be frustrating. When he left for his job at the surgeons. A little harder. When he looked at Sherlock with eyes of pity. A little harder. When he went with Sar - Stop! He let go, breathing hard and wild eyes staring at where there was now a red mark on John's neck. He panted, willed his heartbeat to slow, but it didn't.

It was _illogical_. He should feel nothing. Nothing at all. He reasoned with himself. What need was there for emotions, for desires? They only interfered. Hurt.

Buttons came undone. Palms flat on his chest, run down to his stomach, then back up. Over the light dusting of hair. Touching his nipples, then along his sides, counting each rib. There was muscle under taut skin. Lovely. So different from his own body. Firmer. Much more solid.

His fingers weren't enough. He leaned in and pressed his cheek, his ear to listen to John's heartbeat. Tapping away. He tapped a long finger to the beat, the thrum of life, John's life. Tentatively, he looked back up at John's face, leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. It felt cold. He kissed again. No, no! Warmth, warming John up, kisses on the corner of his lips, but it was wrong, wrong! There was no response, no reaction. Shouldn't there be a reaction? John was warm, Sherlock knew he shouldn't be the one with the warmth. He felt cold, so cold.

He nipped John's lower lip before he could stop himself, a bead of blood swelled and he licked it up. Tasted salty, metallic. Took his thumb and smeared the next drop, distorting his lip. He felt hot, a burning in his gut, like something was trying to burn its way up to his throat, but then got lodged there, he swallowed, tried to force it down. Now the backs of his eyes were burning.

Down, he pulled at John's pyjamas, pulled them down to his knees, then stopped. Rubbed the top of his feet, touched each toe, counting that they were all there. All his. Couldn't John just give him one thing, one toe? Then whenever Sherlock wanted to, he could reach out, and touch. It was the least of John, the very least, least important. He held onto the smallest toe of his left foot, gave it a light pull. John could do this for him. He wouldn't mind. He wouldn't need everything.

Sherlock abruptly sat back at John's feet, took in all of John, his hips, his thighs. He let out a soft moan. He wanted everything. Just one night. John would never know. But he was so still, dead except for the motion of his chest, the rise and fall.

Dead outside the kitchen. South Kensington. Had been drugged and then raped, but the drugs, the sedatives had been too strong, the man had died halfway through the act. No, not too strong, suspected arrhythmia. The killer hadn't noticed. Not until the body had begun to stiffen under him, had horror overtaken him. Or had he liked it? Enjoyed it? Irrelevant. Sherlock needed to know how a sedated man acted, how his body reacted. Curiosity. He didn't know, needed to know.

He leaned his head in, licked along John's thigh, softer, there was still muscle, but the skin was softer. He pressed with his fingers as he licked, fingerprints, evidence as he lessened the pressure, then pressed again, saw how the skin both gave and resisted. John was limp by his face, he touched with his tongue, stopped, touched again. His fingers felt the pulse in his inner thigh, thudding as if in time with Sherlock's own heart. Thudding against his chest, except Sherlock's beat wasn't timed to John's. He licked the tip, his fingers now running up and down the length, seeing if there was a response. There was a twitch, his fingers went faster, faster. But he still hung limp in Sherlock's hands.

It hit him. Muscle relaxant. There was no way that John would respond. Sherlock sat up, scrambled back, away, off the bed and onto the floor. The sedative had muscle relaxant in it. The victim had woken up, had seen his attacker. The sedative, relaxant hadn't been strong enough. The dead man had a full hard-on. The attacker had wanted response, some, so hadn't given him the full dose. The victim woke, saw the attacker, and then had been killed. A punch to the chest could deliver the right amount of force to a weak heart to cause it to stop, along with the lingering effects of the sedative.

Sherlock stood, took out his phone and sent a quick text to Lestrade. The killer would be found before morning. Satisfied, Sherlock let out a grin. Yes! Yes! Too easy, now that he knew. How stupid of the killer. Thinking he could outsmart Sherlock.

"John, John!" He shook John's shoulder. He wanted to be praised. "John!" He frowned, pulled up John's pyjamas, buttoned part of the shirt. Yes! Quickly he went down to the kitchen, found what he was looking for. Back up. He took the needle, filled it from the bottle, tapped for air bubbles, then found a good vein and stabbed it. John's eyes fluttered. Sherlock quickly took the needle and bottle, stuffed it into his pocket, winced as the needle got his finger.

John looked blearily as a figure leaned over him. "John...John..." He blinked his eyes a few times before the figure became clearer.

"Sherlock? What...what's going on?" John sat up, rubbed his head. "Why are you in my room?" His eyes followed Sherlock as a dull headache began forming in the back of his head. Sherlock was pacing his room now. "John, it was so easy. I should have seen it sooner." Sherlock laughed. "The killer won't get manslaughter. Second degree at least."

John got out of bed, stood up and felt momentarily dizzy. Then the headache hit him hard and he staggered. Shit, he felt bad. He tried to muster some interest in what Sherlock was saying.

"So, how did you figure it out?" He considered getting back into bed, but then decided that the bathroom was better, much better.

Sherlock froze in the middle of his pacing. His eyes darted to John, looked away. John didn't notice, stumbled towards the bathroom.

"Ah." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Had to do with a muscle relaxant - not important - I'm going to get some tea." He hurried down the stairs, disappearing from John's sight. John shook his head, then moaned at the pain. Damn! Why did Sherlock have to wake him up in the middle of the night? And why did his head hurt so much? His head was too fuzzy to make any connections. He found the bathroom door, opened it and went in. He turned on the sink, cold water, splashed some on his face in a vain attempt to cool his head.

The water was pink. Pink! He looked up at the mirror. His lip was bleeding.

"Sherlock!"


End file.
